Never argue with rivers
by splotdog
Summary: "I thought he'd be better by now. I thought he'd have forgotten." Sherlock is dead, John is broken, and there's no one around to pick up the pieces. Post Reichenbach, one-shot.


Authors Note: I set out to write some nice fluffy Johnlock, and this happened. I'm very sorry.

* * *

**May 5****th**** 2012**

_You aren't dead. I know you aren't dead. –JW_

_You can't be dead, it's not possible. –JW_

_It wasn't a lie. You never told a lie. It was real. It was always real. –JW_

_I think. –JW_

**May 6****th**** 2012**

_You aren't dead. –JW_

**May 7****th**** 2012**

_Come on, prove it. Show yourself. Tell me how you did it. –JW_

_I bet you're dying to tell me. –JW_

_Dying. –JW_

_Point out the irony. Say something annoying. Point out how stupid we're all being. Say something? –JW_

**May 8****th**** 2012**

_Sherlock?_

**May 9****th**** 2012**

_The funeral today. See you there? –JW_

_Or not. –JW_

**May 10****th**** 2012**

May 10th; the first day John didn't text. Not even a word. Sherlock spent a good part of the day staring at his phone. Waiting for the familiar beep followed by his name, illuminating the room. It never came, and as the day turned into night the knot at the base of his chest became ever tighter, he couldn't help but worry he was being forgotten. And he knew that it wasn't meant to be like this, but he couldn't shake the feeling that all he'd know for the rest of his life was this darkness, this never ending darkness.

Several times he typed out replies to John.

He couldn't send a single one of them.

**June 1****st**** 2012**

_Sorry. I tried to stop texting you for a while after the funeral. It was…weird. Your mother was there, and Mycroft, of course. But everyone was looking at me. As if they were waiting for something…I don't know what. So I just tried my best to stay in the background. And thought that, perhaps, texting you wasn't helping anyone. I don't know. But I'm texting you now, anyway. Despite myself. –JW_

**June 2****nd**** 2012**

Mycroft was the first to find out about Sherlock's great deception. If it were up to Sherlock, it would have never happened, but his injuries were too great and he needed somewhere to stay. Neither of them mentioned the texts, although Sherlock was sure Mycroft knew, and it was understood that no one was to know where Sherlock was. No one.

**June 4****th**** 2012**

_It's been a month. Sarah's finally caved and allowed me to go back to work. –JW_

Sherlock asked Mycroft to keep an eye on John. He smiled and asked what made him think he hadn't already been doing so.

**June 5****th**** 2012**

_I've got a date! Fancy that. It's a long story but I met her yesterday on the way home from work. I was pretty tired and walking along on autopilot, I guess, when I bumped into her; literally. Well… It'll be nice to get out, at least. –JW_

It wasn't until five days later that Mycroft mentioned a woman named Mary. It was irrational, but Sherlock had never hated anyone so much in his life.

**June 11****th**** 2012**

_I miss you. –JW_

**July 1****st**** 2012**

Sherlock tried desperately not to think about John's silence. He tried desperately to think about anything other than John. He threw himself into his work harder than ever, Mycroft stayed silent on the matter.

**August 1****st**** 2012**

Sherlock was told that John had started looking for flats in different areas of London. He didn't know why this bothered him more than the broken leg and fractured rib.

**August 12****th**** 2012**

Mrs Hudson's assassin died in Norway of hypothermia, according to the records. Sherlock knew otherwise.

_I wish you could reply. Or I wish I could stop texting. Maybe I'll delete your number from my phone. –JW_

_Please don't. –SH [erased]_

**August 31****st**** 2012**

_I found a new flat. It's not much but at least I can afford it… All I can think about is someone else living in the old one. The thought is killing me. I can't imagine someone else sitting and looking out of that window, or using that fridge, or sleeping in that bed… I've been talking to Mary about you. She seems to understand. It's nice. –JW_

"He's still with Mary?"

Mycroft watches Sherlock carefully, "Of course. What did you expect?"

Sherlock doesn't need to say what he expected, it's written all over his face.

**September 22****nd**** 2012**

_I think I'm starting to understand what everyone was waiting for. –JW_

_I didn't want to. –JW_

_Believe me I never wanted to. But now I know. And what am I meant to do? –JW_

_I had an argument with Mary. –JW_

_She says I talk about you too much. I think she meant well but… it made me mad. I should apologise. –JW_

_Tomorrow. –JW_

_I think I need to be alone, tonight, at least. –JW_

_I wish you were here. –JW_

_I miss you. –JW_

**September 23****rd**** 2012**

_It's all fine. I apologised, she said she understood. She always understands. –JW_

While he's sure it's not meant that way, Sherlock feels as if this is a jab at him personally. Mary always understands what Sherlock never could begin to. Mary is better. Mary is what John deserves.

Sherlock hates that woman.

**September 28****th**** 2012**

_This new flat is worse than Baker Street, it's colder. I feel you less when I'm here. The walls are plain white and everything is just ordinary. I can imagine what you'd say if you saw it. It's getting colder now, and my jacket has certainly seen better days. You were right; I do need to get a new one. Mary promised to take me shopping some time next week, I know it's ridiculous but I wish she would just leave it. It feels like she's intruding. –JW_

Sherlock isn't sure that he knows what John means when he says 'he feels him less', but he's pretty sure it doesn't sound good. One night he almost talks to Mycroft about his fears, but he remembers that would be wrong. Mycroft wouldn't approve of him caring so much.

**October 6****th**** 2012**

_Things keep getting worse and I'm not sure why, everyone said things would get better but they aren't. I try not to mention it because I don't want people to worry, perhaps I'm meant to have moved on by now, but I can't. I feel as if there was always some invisible tether binding me to you and instead of loosening, now, it's only getting tighter. And I don't know but maybe, just maybe, it's going to strangle me one day, and then where will I be? I've been speaking to Mary less lately. I know it's not her fault but it feels as if she's trying to cut the tether, and I'm just not ready for that yet. I miss you terribly, Sherlock. Please come home. –JW_

**December 25****th**** 2012**

Months after his death, only one man stood in the way between Sherlock and his very own resurrection. Sebastian Moran. Sherlock knew he couldn't fight this battle alone, not any more, and finally he'd accepted Mycroft's help: To an extent. They fought over breakfast (Mycroft ate toast, Sherlock sipped coffee) about the best way to get to him, they exchanged useless tit-bits of information over lunch and at dinner they stared out of the window, calculating how long it would be till it was all over. John Watson was never mentioned, not if Sherlock had anything to say about it.

Of course, Sherlock still walked around day and night with his mobile phone attached to him. But it didn't go off, not until Christmas day. And even then he still couldn't shake the feeling that John was right, the tether needed to be cut in order to stop the two of them from suffocating each other.

_Merry Christmas, Sherlock. -JW_

**January 2****nd**** 2013**

_I'm moving again, today. New year, new start, new house. I still can't believe Mary wanted to move in with me after everything… -JW_

**January 3****rd**** 2013**

"Why didn't you tell me John and Mary were moving in together?"

"Oh, so he told you, then?"

"That's not the point."

"I thought he'd stopped texting."

"Almost."

**February 1****st**** 2013**

_I'm sorry I only text you when we've had a fight. It's just that's when I can remember everything most clearly. It's when everything makes the most sense, in a weird sort of way. I'm starting to think that… no… never mind. -JW_

**February 2****nd**** 2013**

_She still hasn't come home. I don't know what to say, or what to do. Maybe this is the end of it? –JW_

It's on that day that Sherlock realises he doesn't hate Mary. And that what's important to him, what really matters, is that John is happy. No matter whom that's with. He finds himself crossing his fingers and hoping with all his heart Mary returns home, even if it kills him. Again.

**February 3****rd**** 2013**

_I suppose I can't blame her for leaving… -JW_

**February 4****th**** 2013**

_Maybe I'm not meant to have relationships. Maybe I'm just one of those people that are destined to be alone? Like, the universe has its plan for me and it's not going to change. Ever. –JW_

_Oh sod it. –JW_

_I don't want to be alone. –JW_

Sherlock spends the entire night with his finger hovering over the 'call' button. He so desperately wants to tell John that, of course he's not meant to be alone. He's meant to be with him.

**February 5****th**** 2013**

_She came home. I can't believe I almost gave up there I don't know what… she's home. Everything's fine. Everything's fine. –JW_

Sherlock is fully aware that everything is not fine.

**March 27****th**** 2013**

It's a dreary Wednesday when Mycroft finally speaks up. His brother is curled up on what used to be his favourite sofa, and is staring at his phone. His John phone, as Mycroft had christened it. Sherlock had another that he used for texting himself, and a few others. Criminals, mostly. But this phone was John's, something Mycroft had slowly come to understand.

"Have you worked it out yet?" he asked, perching himself on the edge of the arm chair, facing Sherlock, the man in question was facing the wall. Silence followed, and Mycroft let out a long breath, about to carry on just as Sherlock interjected.

"No. Please. Don't."

Mycroft folded his hands into his lap, examining the detective. He'd lost even more weight over the past 10 months and his clothes hung loosely over his skeletal frame. "Fine." He sighed, now shifting his gaze to the large painting over Sherlock's head. "One more week, Sherlock."

Sherlock makes a small noise like an injured animal and Mycroft almost winces, "It's still not safe."

"It was never safe to begin with."

"He doesn't need me."

"Yes, he does."

Sherlock turns to face Mycroft, a look of disgust upon his face, "No. Mary is what he needs. I just ruin things. I'd just ruin it."

"Sherlock-"

"In one week it will be safe, Mycroft, but I won't be. I'm not safe. I'm not to be trusted. I almost broke him. I won't let that happen again."

"Sherlock-" before Mycroft could finish his sentence Sherlock had left the room.

**April 2****nd**** 2013**

_I haven't texted you in so long…I'm sorry. –JW_

_Please forgive me. I need to move on, I know that now. –JW_

Sebastian Moran finally fell on April 2nd. Sherlock knew he should be happy, but all he knew was that John hadn't missed his since October 6th.

**April 4****th**** 2013**

_Eight months tomorrow. Unbelievable. –JW_

**April 5****th**** 2013**

_This is my longest relationship since…you. –JW_

_Is it weird to count every month? –JW_

_Oh my God. –JW_

_I almost forgot. –JW_

Mycroft started at the text curiously when Sherlock showed him in answer to "What's wrong."

"He almost forgot what?"

"This time next month: One year."

**April 6****th**** 2013**

_I woke up on a bench in Hyde Park. I don't remember walking here. It's cold. It's not normally this cold in April. I should get home but I feel like something's wrong. –JW_

_I tried calling Mary. She won't answer. –JW_

_I think I can remember what happened… -JW_

**April 8****th**** 2013**

Eventually Sherlock asked Mycroft what happened. He said that Mary had told John she loved him, and that John had started drinking. He said that Mary had told him it was fine, that she was fine if he couldn't say it yet, and that he shouldn't feel guilty. Mycroft told him John left. He didn't tell him what he said to Mary before he did so. He didn't tell him that he looked her in the eye and said he'd never be able to say it because he loved someone else, and always would. He didn't tell him that someone was Sherlock.

**April 9****th**** 2013**

_I'm moving back into the old flat. It's still as dull as ever, but it'll do. It'll have to do. –JW_

**April 10****th**** 2013**

"I thought he'd be better by now. I thought he'd have forgotten."

"Then you must have majorly underestimated him."

**April 11****th**** 2013**

_I miss you. –JW_

_I love you. –JW_

_Please come back. –JW_

_Please? –JW_

"Are you crying?"

"Shut up."

"Why are you crying?"

"I said SHUT UP."

**April 13****th**** 2013**

_I don't want to do this without you any more. It's killing me. Mary rang. I didn't answer. You didn't ring. I wish you could ring. –JW_

**April 14****th**** 2013**

_I hate that I'm still texting you… even after all this time I'm texting you. I can't stop. I can't accept it. I'm angry but I'm sad and I think I'm starting to give up hope and then what's going to be left? I'm just going to be a shell. This is your fault. You've made me into a shell… I'd tell you to come home but I know that you won't, and I'd say that I missed you but that hasn't worked so far and I'd tell you I love you but… Love shouldn't feel like this. Love is meant to be good, and pure, but this is just pain. This love just hurts and every inch of my being is aching and it's crushing me and the fact that I can't see you again is unbearable. I swear I can't do this anymore. Please don't make me do this anymore. It's too much. I've tried and it's too much. –JW_

Sherlock placed his phone down on the table and calmly stood up. He found himself outside before he could even remember moving and he felt the water from the early morning grass seeping through his trousers before he even noticed that he was sat down.

**April 15****th**** 2013**

Sherlock burst into the kitchen where Mycroft was stirring a cup of coffee and staring at an article. He looked up at Sherlock and opened his mouth to say something just as Sherlock did the same.

"I'm going to do it." Sherlock declared, still in the same clothes he wore yesterday. He'd spent the night pacing the garden.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock smiled and shook his head, "No, Mycroft. I'm going to do it."

**April 16****th**** 2013**

_I'm really very sorry. But I love you, John Watson. And all of this has gone on for far too long, don't you think? I'm going to return to Baker Street on Monday and if you aren't there then I don't know what I'll do. Because I need you, John. And I'm terrified. And I don't want to hurt you but I know now that if I never try then all I'm going to know from here on out is this endless pain. And I don't want to live in pain, anymore, believe me. –SH _

_John? –SH_

_John, please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I took so long. Please, John. -SH_

_John? –SH_

**April 20****th**** 2013**

"Sherlock I need to talk to you."

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"Mycroft. No. I can't. I'm sorry. I should go. I need to go pack."

**April 21****st**** 2013**

"Sherlock, please listen to me."

Sherlock frowned, and concentrated on tuning his violin. The A string was just a little flat… "Sherlock!" there was a loud _twang_ as the string snapped in half. One end flicked against Sherlock wrist, hard, and he looked up at Mycroft with disgust.

"What?"

Mycroft look a deep breath and sat down. "He's dead, Sherlock."

"…No." Sherlock shook his head, it wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible. "No... no… no." he found himself repeating the words over and over as if that action in it's self had the power to change everything. He didn't notice Mycroft leave the room, but he was glad that he had. He didn't like for his brother to see him cry.

**April 22****nd**** 2013**

"I killed him, didn't I?"

Mycroft looked up from his newspaper, watching Sherlock carefully. He pursed his lips before retuning to the article that he wasn't really reading. He didn't confirm it, but he didn't deny it either.

Sherlock hated himself.

**April 23****rd**** 2013**

Sherlock moved back into Baker Street, despite his brother's protests. Mycroft watched silently as Sherlock filled a small bag with his belongings and hailed a cab, he told him that he'd be keeping watch and that he better not dare think of following in John's footsteps. Sherlock laughed, "Didn't you hear, brother dear? I'm already dead."

**May 4****th**** 2013**

A year after his death, Sherlock Holmes was officially back. His name had been cleared and Lestrade had started calling for his help again, at first hesitantly but after just under two weeks everything was back to normal. Sort of. Sherlock worked, and he evaded sleep, but eventually sleep always caught up with him. He forced himself to eat small amounts of food- nothing heavy, just enough to stop himself from fainting, and he stopped smoking. At first he stuck with the nicotine patches but they made him feel almost okay and he had no right to feel okay, so instead he cut up straws, and he sucked on them, feeling disgusted in himself because he was breathing in air that he really didn't deserve.

He met Mary, only for a brief moment. It was at the funeral. She approached him, with silent curiosity, and stared at him. After a while she stammered the question everyone wanted to ask and Sherlock said yes, and then she cried. Horrible angry tears and she told him that John loved him and all Sherlock could do was stand straight and stare ahead and tell her that yes, yes he knew. And that he understood if she hated him, but it really wasn't necessary, because he already hated himself enough for everyone. Then she hugged him, which Sherlock didn't understand. But he was glad. He was glad there was someone there to confuse him.

The work he had been doing to bring down Moriarty's web hadn't been enough, as he had expected, but he left the rest to the governments and the police units. All he'd ever wanted to ensure John was safe; he didn't care about the rest. He avoided reading the newspapers but Mycroft still updated him each day on what had happened, which drug company had fallen or which mass murderer had been found, thanks to the information that the two of them had managed to piece together. The information that, at the time, had been deemed useless, as it wasn't going to save John's life. Sherlock never replied to a single one of his texts, but Mycroft new he was still there. Sherlock had long since given up on taking the cameras down, accepting that, apparently, he really didn't know everything. Finally accepting that he couldn't do everything alone. He couldn't even mourn for John alone, no one would let him. They kept calling by and dropping him emails, and inviting him out for coffee, and he kept accepting. They all cared so much, and Sherlock found that he appreciated it.

Sherlock didn't know when it was exactly, but one day he realised that Mycroft had been wrong. There was nothing wrong with caring. Yes, sometimes it meant you hurt. But sometimes it meant you weren't alone, and it meant you were human, and it meant you'd survive. You'd hurt, but you'd survive. You'd soldier on.

And that's what you must do, isn't it?

Soldier on.


End file.
